


break it all down into pieces of bright

by oryx



Category: Inazuma Eleven, Inazuma Eleven GO
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 16:00:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oryx/pseuds/oryx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someoka spends a few days at Hakuren. The outcome is not one that he had anticipated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	break it all down into pieces of bright

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is super self-indulgent and full of terrible melodrama. you have been warned. UwU  
> title stolen shamelessly from [luv (sic) part 3](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y1qfq0sz_GM).  
> and i'd say happy somefubu day except i'm nearly a week late at this point. oop?

The cold air cuts through him as soon as he steps out of the car. He shivers and pulls his suit jacket a little tighter around himself. It’s supposedly spring, but there’s still snow on the ground in this part of Hokkaido, a light dusting of the stuff decorating the tree branches, off-set by the faint green of new leaves. He stretches out his aching shoulders (he just had to rent the tiniest car in existence, didn’t he?), pausing when he hears some familiar sounds in the distance – shouts of “pass it here” interspersed with the occasional trill of a whistle. Ryuugo smiles. Looks like he’s arrived just in time to catch the tail-end of practice.

 

He takes the meandering path up to the school, nearly slipping on a patch of almost-melted ice. When the soccer pitch comes into view he can’t help but stop to observe, his eyes following number eleven’s movements as he brings the ball up to the goal. Number four stops him with practiced ease, but misjudges his pass to number eight, as number ten makes a deft mid-air cut at the last moment, revitalizing the offensive drive. Number ten is talented, that much is obvious. He’s got agility, ball control, and a kind of raw power behind his kick, the kind you don’t often see in middle school kids. Ryuugo whistles, impressed, as his shot breaks clean through the goalie’s defense. (There’s something familiar about number ten. Something in the way he runs, the way he surges across the field, like the goal is all that matters. But no, Ryuugo thinks. He’s probably just imagining things.)

 

He makes his way down the slope toward the pitch, sidling up to the bench with a grin.

 

“They’re looking pretty good,” he casually remarks.

 

“Thanks,” Shirou murmurs – a rote response. He’s focused entirely on the field, a thoughtful set to his features. “They’ve been working hard…”

 

His words fade away as he turns towards Ryuugo.

 

Shirou blinks. His eyes widen. His clipboard slips from his hands and lands in the dirt with a _thunk_.

 

“Holy hell,” he breathes, a disbelieving smile curving his lips, and promptly launches himself at Ryuugo, arms circling around his shoulders in a tight hug. Ryuugo stumbles back a step with a startled laugh. He hesitates for a moment before wrapping his arms around Shirou’s waist. He’s so thin. Thinner than last time, it seems, but his weight is still comforting and warm against Ryuugo’s chest.

 

“I can’t believe it,” Shirou is saying, his voice close to Ryuugo’s ear. “What’re you doing here?? I thought you weren’t supposed to be back til August?”

 

“Hah, well… The season is pretty much wrapped up, and our home stadium is in the middle of renovations, so the entire team got some time off. Monaco was tempting, but I thought I should probably come home instead… My mother keeps calling to ask if I’m eating enough, which is her way of saying she misses me.”

 

Shirou pulls back with a grin, and Ryuugo lets go rather reluctantly, his hand still lingering on Shirou’s hip.

 

“What’s with the white suit?” he says, raising an eyebrow. “And a white fedora, too?” He reaches up and plucks the hat right off of Ryuugo’s head, donning it himself. “Don’t tell me you joined the mafia. I don’t see you for a couple months and you turn to a life of crime? For shame.”

 

“Oh please,” Ryuugo laughs, snatching his hat back. “I’ll have you know this is considered very fashionable over in Italy. And I make a point to wear one of these every time I travel. People tend to think you’re famous when you wear white suits on planes. On my last flight I had a lady ask me what movie I was filming.”

 

“…You invented a movie right then and there, didn’t you?”

 

“Yep.” He grins. “ _La Stanza Viola_. It’s a heist film with a shocking twist. Coming to theatres near you in summer 2054.”

 

Shirou’s shoulders are shaking with quiet laughter. “That’s awful,” he says. “What if she starts seriously looking forward to it?”

 

“Hey, movie productions fall through all the time, you know. _La Stanza Viola_ already has enough budgeting issues as it is. At this rate the project will probably be scrapped before casting even begins…” He trails off when he realizes how strangely quiet it’s gotten on the pitch. He turns to glance out at the field. Several of the kids have halted practice entirely, staring wide-eyed at him and Shirou. Number ten in particular looks rather pale in the face, his expression hovering somewhere between stunned and dismayed.

 

“Oi, Yukimura!” a voice shouts, echoing from the other end of the field. “Watch out!”

 

Number ten starts and spins around, but not quick enough, as he doesn’t quite manage to avoid the errant ball hurtling in his direction. It hits him square on the temple and knocks him flat on his back, and Ryuugo and Shirou both wince in unison. They jog over along with the rest of the team and peer down at him.

 

“Well damn. You okay there, Yukimura?” Shirou extends a hand and hauls the kid to his feet. He looks alright – maybe a bit dazed at worst – but all the same Shirou reaches out and brushes his hair back from his forehead, leaning in close to check for bruises, peering into his eyes to make sure they’re not out of focus. The kid goes bright red at Shirou’s touch.

 

“‘M fine,” he mutters. He glances over Shirou’s shoulder at Ryuugo, his gaze abruptly darkening. “…Who’s this, Coach?”

 

“Ah, right!” Shirou claps his hands, gesturing for everyone to huddle up. “Practice is officially over for today, guys. You know the drill – if you want to stay outside, feel free, but keep warm, don’t overwork yourselves, and be in by dark. Okay? And I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine: Someoka Ryuugo. We played on the Inazuma Japan team together way back in the day. He’s a big hotshot in the Italian pro league right now,” (Ryuugo has to bite back a sardonic laugh), “so you might’ve heard his name before.”

 

Hakuren’s players exchange a few whispered words.

 

“Yeah, I know you,” one of the kids in the back pipes up. “You’re a forward, right? Coach watches all of your team’s games! He rigged the tv in the lounge so we get a bunch of Italian sports channels.”

 

Ryuugo blinks, taken aback, and looks over at Shirou, who is rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, half-smiling in that way he does whenever he’s embarrassed.

 

“Do you… seriously watch all of my games?” he asks, once the kids have filed back inside. The ball they left behind is just sitting there, tempting him, and he passes it to Shirou without thinking.

 

“Yeah, I mean… Of course I do.” Shirou flips the ball up, juggling it a few times before kicking it back. “I can never pass up good soccer, y’know? The match you played against Fideo’s team a couple months back… Man. That shit was beyond amazing. I still think about it.” He grins. “Sometimes I’ll literally just stop whatever I’m doing and stand there with this dumb, glazed look on my face, remembering how incredible that game was.”

 

“You do realize we _lost_ that game, right?” Ryuugo laughs. He dribbles the ball a little ways down the field and is marked within seconds. He feints to the left but Shirou is, as always, one step ahead. As expected of an ace defender. His footwork is so deft that it’s almost a blur.

 

“Yeah,” Shirou says, as he calmly steals the ball. “But… that goal you scored, at the very last moment? That was something else. I’ve never seen anything like it. Not even from Gouenji.” He pauses, then, a wistful expression flickering across his face. “I miss playing with you, Ryuu.”

 

Ryuugo swallows hard. He notices, in this moment, that Shirou’s hair is getting long. It’s starting to curl ever so slightly around his ears and at the nape of his neck.

 

His chest aches.

 

“This school, these kids… They’re important to me. I know this is where I’m supposed to be. But still, I…” Shirou’s words trail off into nothing. He laughs softly. “Sorry. Getting all mushy on you.”

 

“No,” Ryuugo manages to say. “It’s fine.”

 

(Just a little more. Just a little bit closer and he could – )

 

“Man, it’s just so good to see you,” Shirou says. He reaches up to put a hand on Ryuugo’s shoulder, and smiles brightly, and all Ryuugo can do is nod in return.

 

.

 

.

 

“Truthfully I’m amazed I even managed to find you,” he says, leaning back with a sigh. He stares at the beer in his hand with a thoughtful frown. “We seem to have a bad habit of missing each other.”

 

(His original plan of staying at the inn a couple miles down the road had been shot down rather quickly. “Plenty of space in my room,” Shirou had said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Got a spare futon, a kotatsu, and it’s free. What more do you need? … And according to local rumors that inn is haunted, so. I think the choice is obvious.”)

 

“Oh yeah,” Shirou laughs. “When I got back, the groundskeeper told me about some ‘slightly scary and rather flashy man’ who had been looking for me. Took me a while to figure out he meant you.”

 

“Geez,” Ryuugo huffs. “I had a flight the next day but I still took a train all the way up here to see you, only to find that you were ‘on vacation.’ Except nobody would tell me where this so-called ‘vacation’ was taking place. I went back worried that you’d been kidnapped or some shit. Until finally Kazemaru had the good graces to send out a mass e-mail and fill everyone in.” He rolls his eyes. “A trip to an uncharted island, helping to uncover the wrongdoings of an evil organization. Of course. What else would you and Endou _possibly_ be doing in your spare time?”

 

Shirou only laughs harder. “Sorry, sorry,” he says. “But it’s not like I could just tell you what was going on. There were a lot of factors at play and we couldn’t risk it… But… wait. When else did we miss each other??”

 

“… Seriously? You don’t remember? When you came to see me last year…?”

 

“Oh, yeah! You were waiting at the wrong terminal at the airport!”

 

Ryuugo drags a tired hand across his face. “They gave me the wrong information on the website, alright? You’re the one whose phone was conveniently dead! And instead of getting a hotel room like a normal person you ended up spending the night with some woman you met in a café.”

 

“Francesca!” Shirou grins. “She was so great. Still have her number, actually. Might have to call her up next time I’m in Italy.”

 

Ryuugo shakes his head, wavering precariously between amazement and disbelief. “I’m still not entirely sure how you managed that. You don’t even speak Italian.”

 

“Hey now, I know a couple phrases. Enough to get by. And me and Francesca had an unspoken bond from the very start.”

 

Ryuugo narrows his eyes. “Did you…?”

 

“Whaaat? No way. She was amazing, but… I barely knew her. You know I’m not into one-night stands. And I think she had someone already, judging by the pictures in her apartment. A _female_ someone. Fairly certain she wasn’t interested in me.”

 

“Oh,” Ryuugo says, trying not to let the relief show on his face. For a long while now he’s been mentally preparing himself for Shirou’s next, inevitable girlfriend. Ever since that string of fleeting relationships in college (few of them lasting more than a month), Shirou has been strangely, blessedly single, and Ryuugo knows that it can’t last much longer. Some day soon he’s going to check his phone to find that message – “I met someone” – waiting for him, and it’ll be time once again to force a smile, to type back a pained “congratulations,” to ask her name and her job and her interests when all he really wants to say is “please, please look at me instead.”

 

Later, he lies awake, staring up at the darkened ceiling and listening to Shirou breathe.

 

If he were smarter, he’d never have come to Hakuren. He’d have stayed away and let this thing die, finally, at the hands of absence.

 

(But then again, he supposes, absence alone would not have been enough to erase eight long years of wanting.)

 

.

 

.

 

“Are you and Coach going out?”

 

Startled, his kick veers a little farther to the side than he had originally intended. Shirosaki dives for the ball but doesn’t even manage to brush it with his fingertips.

 

“… Excuse me?”

 

Shirosaki smiles as he gets to his feet, brushing the dirt from his clothes. “No need to sound so defensive, Someoka-san. I’m just curious.” He tosses the ball back. “I’ve noticed that Coach is rather popular with women. There are a few female teachers at the school, and they always seem charmed by him, falling over themselves to help him whenever he needs something. So it’s… _interesting_ to think that he might swing in the other direction.”

 

Ryuugo stares at him blankly. God, he’d forgotten how much he hated teenagers. If only they were all as embarrassingly earnest as Nishiki.

 

(Shirou had asked him to practice with this kid, and it’s not like he can ever refuse that face.

 

“Shirosaki is a solid captain and an amazing goalkeeper,” he’d said. “But only Yukimura is any match for him here at Hakuren, and because of that he tends to get a bit… cocky, especially during the off-season. I think he could benefit from practicing with someone far above his skill-set.”

 

“Are you telling me to take a middle-schooler down a few pegs?” Ryuugo had asked, and Shirou had merely laughed.)

 

“No,” he says finally. “We’re not going out.” He aims a kick directly at Shirosaki’s chest, putting more power behind it than he probably should. The kid at least has the decency to look surprised as he’s thrown against the net from the sheer force, but his obnoxious smile settles back in place all-too-quickly.

 

“Do you… _wish_ that you were going out?”

 

Ryuugo pauses mid-kick and scowls, trying to ignore the anxious jump of his pulse. “What is this, an interrogation? How about you mind your own business, kid?”

 

Shirosaki laughs, cut off by a pained ‘oof’ as he fails to block another shot. “Sorry, sorry,” he gasps. “No offense meant. You’re just rather easy to read, Someoka-san. Why don’t you just tell Coach how you feel? He’s a pretty laid-back guy, you know. I’m sure he’d be willing to hear you out.”

 

Now it’s Ryuugo’s turn to laugh. “Oh, you’re handing out love advice, are you? What’re you, fourteen?” He shakes his head, halfway between amused and exasperated. “It’s more complicated than that, alright? There’s things to consider. I don’t want to… to ruin…”

 

His words fade away. What is he thinking, talking to this brat? He sends another kick in Shirosaki’s direction, this one curving at the last second to narrowly miss the kid’s head.

 

“Oi. Since you asked some annoying questions, I get to ask some too. What’s with number ten? Does he have a, uh…?”

 

“A thing for Coach?” Shirosaki offers. “Oh, most definitely. It’s a… public secret of a sort. Yukimura is not a master of subtlety. We all just kinda pretend not to notice.”

 

“… Huh. So that’s why he’s been doing nothing but glowering at me?”

 

“Mmhmm. He views you as a rival. Also… speaking honestly, Someoka-san, you look more like a yakuza than a soccer player. Not exactly the ideal love interest for our dear coach.”

 

Ryuugo’s scowl deepens. “Well excuse me for not being _ideal_ ,” he mutters. He forces Shirosaki to lunge for the next few shots, sending the ball into the far corners of the net, keeping it up until the kid’s smug grin has all but vanished. A thought occurs to him, then, and he pauses, giving Shirosaki a chance to catch his breath.

 

“Hey, have there been any avalanches around here lately?”

 

Shirosaki looks at him quizzically. “Avalanches…? There was one a couple months ago, but apparently it was pretty small… Why?”

 

“No reason. I just… get kinda worried, is all.”

 

Shirosaki raises an eyebrow. “We’re hardly in danger here at school, you know. Unless you count ‘hearing a faint rumble in the distance’ as ‘danger.’”

 

Ryuugo glances over his shoulder, across the field to where Shirou is standing, observing the rest of the team as they run their drills.

 

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

 

.

 

.

 

“You’re the only one I know who still reads paper books.”

 

He glances up over the rim of his reading glasses to find Shirou peering down at him. It’s late, nearing one in the morning, and the lounge is quiet – the students have all been successfully corralled into their rooms for the night.

 

“I guess I’m just old-fashioned,” he says, smiling.

 

Shirou sinks down on the couch next to him, leaning in close to try and read the back cover. “In Italian, huh?”

 

“Yeah… Can’t let myself get rusty. The number of times I’ve accidentally switched into Japanese while talking to my teammates is embarrassing enough already.”

 

“Come now,” Shirou says with a grin. “I think you mean _Giapponese_.” He examines the book cover for another long moment, a contemplative look in his eyes. “ _Il Giurato Rurale_ ,” he reads, each word slow and deliberate. His pronunciation is nearly flawless. “Some kind of legal thriller, right?”

 

Ryuugo stares at him. “…Yeah. How did you…?”

 

Shirou merely smiles. “You mind if I watch something? I’ll keep the volume low.”

 

“Oh, uh… No, that’s… that’s fine. Go ahead.”

 

He watches Shirou curiously out of the corner of his eye. Last year he hadn’t even been able to read the menu when they went out to eat, instead just pointing at random selections and saying “per favore” in an awkward, stilted accent. _Has he been teaching himself?_ he wonders, and the thought settles warm in his chest.

 

“Oh good, it just started,” Shirou says. Ryuugo looks up at the tv in time to see something bright orange swish through a net.

 

“Basketball? I didn’t know you were into that.”

 

Shirou gives a nonchalant shrug. “It’s dull, not having any sports to watch when soccer is in the off-season. And tennis is a little too… repetitive for me. So basketball seemed like the best option. They apparently call this ‘March Madness’ over in America. People fill out brackets and bet on which teams they think will win.” His smile turns a little sly. “I may or may not have placed a few wagers online. You know I have good luck when it comes to – oh, _come on_! That was clearly a foul! Did you see that??”

 

Ryuugo raises an eyebrow. “I certainly saw something, though I couldn’t tell you what. You do realize I know next to nothing about basketball, right?”

 

“Ah, right,” Shirou laughs. “My bad.”

 

Ryuugo shakes his head and returns to his book, but finds himself reading the same lines over and over again, unable to get his concentration back. Shirou is sitting so very close to him. Their legs are pressed up against one another, the warmth of Shirou’s skin palpable even through layers of clothing. Their shoulders are almost touching. After months of separation, the proximity is enough to set his teeth on edge. And despite keeping his promise to turn the volume low, every minute or so Shirou will mutter something at the screen (“what the hell, that shot was wide open,” “why would you put _him_ in? number five is better with rebounds”) that Ryuugo has no hope of ignoring. He sighs and sets his book aside a minute later, resigning himself to the hectic pace of basketball.

 

The second quarter is halfway over by the time he realizes that Shirou is no longer making exasperated comments. He glances over. Shirou’s head is bowed, his eyes closed and his breathing slow and even. It seems his bad habit of falling asleep during movies extends to basketball matches as well.

 

“Oi, Shirou,” he whispers, elbowing him gently. “If you want to sleep, go back to your room.”

 

Shirou makes a drowsy noise, eyes flickering open for a moment before deciding that it’s too much effort. He closes them again and leans over, laying his head on Ryuugo’s shoulder.

 

“I’m not sleeping,” he murmurs. “I’m just… resting for little bit.”

 

A minute later and he’s snoring quietly. His hair is soft where it brushes against Ryuugo’s neck, and his hand has fallen to rest between them, palm open and fingers slightly curled, like it’s waiting to be held.

 

This, Ryuugo thinks, is some deeply exquisite torture.

 

.

 

.

 

He wakes the next morning from his three-possibly-four hours of sleep to find Shirosaki standing there, looking irritatingly put-together and much too pleased with himself. Shirou apparently slid off of his shoulder sometime during the night, as he’s now using Ryuugo’s lap as a pillow instead, face half-buried in his shirt.

 

“This isn’t what it looks like,” he says.

 

“Really, Someoka-san?” Shirosaki’s eyes glint with amusement. “I’d say it’s exactly what it looks like.”

 

Ryuugo levels him with a weary glare. “You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?”

 

“So I’ve been told,” Shirosaki laughs. “Now you might want to wake Coach up before – ”

 

He’s cut off by the sound of the door opening. Yukimura peers inside. “What’re you doing in here, Captain? Didn’t you say you wanted to run some laps before breakfast…?” His words fade away when his gaze lands on Shirou. Something in his face seems to close off, then, his eyes going all flinty and cold and the line of his jaw set with tension. He stands there for minute, saying nothing. And then he merely turns on his heel and leaves, slamming the door shut behind him with such force that it rattles on its hinges.

 

“… Before Yukimura shows up and gets even more intensely jealous than he already is,” Shirosaki says, finishing his previous sentence. He smiles and holds up his hands as if to say ‘what are the chances?’

 

“Oh, wonderful,” Ryuugo sighs. He can feel a headache coming on. “Is he going to call me out for a showdown or something? Is this a ‘pistols at dawn’ type of deal, or…?”

 

“With Yukimura, that might be a distinct possibility. He’s a rather passionate person.” Shirosaki’s eyes flick towards Shirou, who shows no sign of waking up despite their not-so-quiet voices. “And I had no idea Coach was such a sound sleeper…”

 

“Let’s just say college took its toll on his sleeping habits,” Ryuugo mutters. He shakes Shirou’s shoulder rather forcefully. “Oi. How long are you planning to lie there? Your team is already up, y’know.”

 

Shirou groans, curling in upon himself, trying to swat Ryuugo’s hand away. After several minutes of this he finally gives in and pushes himself up into a sitting position. His eyes are still mostly closed, his hair flat on one side and sticking up wildly on the other. He yawns and stretches his arms over his head.

 

Gradually he seems to wake up for real, his gaze drifting into focus.

 

“Oh,” he says, with a lazy half-smile. “Good morning.”

 

The room falls silent as they both stare at him, transfixed.

 

“… I think I’m starting to get it now,” Shirosaki says, and Ryuugo has to tamp down the urge to kick him in the shin.

 

.

 

.

 

When he says he’d like to practice with Yukimura, Shirou looks momentarily taken aback.

 

“I think it could be good for him,” he says by way of explanation. “Since we play the same position and all.” _And I should probably take the initiative before he challenges me to a duel to the death or some shit._

 

Shirou considers this for a time, his eyes gradually softening, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I think you’re right.” He turns toward the field, where the team is in the middle of stretches. “Yukimura! You’re with Someoka today!”

 

The entire team falls silent. They all glance sidelong at Yukimura, who opens his mouth as if to protest but seems to think better of it at the last moment. His shoulders are tense as he nods mutely. Calling his expression “less than enthused” would be very kind indeed.

 

Ten minutes later and they’re standing opposite each other, Yukimura with his arms folded across his chest, purposefully averting his gaze.

 

“Hey, kid. What do you plan to do when you get older?” Ryuugo asks, sending a short pass in his direction.

 

Yukimura stops the ball and turns to stare at him, surprise fading quickly into suspicion. “…Why do you care?”

 

Ryuugo shrugs. “Just making small talk. No need to bite my head off.”

 

Yukimura kicks the ball back, putting all of his power behind it, and scowls when Ryuugo intercepts it easily.

 

“I’m gonna go pro, obviously,” he says.

 

Ryuugo nods thoughtfully. “Yeah, I assumed as much. You’ve definitely got the skill for it. But… Skill isn’t all that matters, you know. Not everyone is cut out for playing professionally.”

 

“What, you think I couldn’t handle it?” Yukimura’s scowl deepens. His fingers flex at his side, curling into a white-knuckled fist.

 

“Maybe,” Ryuugo says. “But not because of soccer. I’m talking about everything else. Those moments when you realize you barely know the city you live in, ‘cause if you’re not travelling you’re practicing, and if you’re not practicing you’re too tired to go out. Or those moments when you walk into your apartment and realize that you barely live there. That you come home just to sleep, and you’ve never even spoken to your neighbors.” He sends another pass to Yukimura, who is looking at him strangely. “And you have to leave people behind, too. Your friends and your family back home. Sometimes it just… hits you suddenly. ‘It’s been 138 days since I last saw him.’ Not everybody can handle things like that, and it’s not about being weak or undisciplined. It’s just a fact.”

 

Yukimura is silent for a long moment.

 

“I don’t like you,” he says finally.

 

“Oh really?” Ryuugo laughs. “Never would’ve guessed.”

 

“I know I’m being unfair, alright?” He makes a frustrated noise, scuffing his shoe in the dirt. “You seem like a good person, and it’s not like I have any right to be… to be _jealous_. Coach will never think of me the same way I think of him, but still I just… I don’t…”

 

His next kick is lacking. It rolls to a feeble halt at Ryuugo’s feet.

 

“It’s hard to stop wishing for something,” Yukimura says, his voice tinged with a kind of quiet wistfulness. He sounds far older than fourteen. “Even if you know it’ll never happen.”

 

Ryuugo looks at him and smiles sadly.

 

“Yeah,” he says. “Ain’t that the truth.”

 

.

 

.

 

“Hey, where do you keep batteries?”

 

“Umm… Try the nightstand?” Shirou suggests. His voice is muffled from behind the bathroom door. “Second drawer, maybe? I don’t know. Why do you need batteries?”

 

“For your tv remote. You make fun of me for reading actual books, but you’re not exactly ahead of the curve yourself. I’m pretty sure this television is forty years old, if not older.”

 

Shirou laughs. “It was the cheapest one I could find, alright? I use the one in the lounge more often, anyway. And I wasn’t ‘making fun’ of you. I think it’s pretty cute, honestly.”

 

Ryuugo chooses to ignore that last comment; opens up the drawer on the nightstand and shuffles through a jumble of pens and old photos. No batteries in sight. He frowns and tries the third drawer instead.

 

Inside is a small stack of books. The first book’s cover reads _Learn to Speak Italian_ in bold, bright lettering. It seems to have been used quite thoroughly, the pages dog-eared and marked here and there with colourful post-its. The others are much the same. A beginner’s guide to Italian grammar. A Japanese-to-Italian dictionary. And underneath the books, a magazine – a months-old issue of _Guerin Sportivo_. Ryuugo picks it up, realization dawning on him, and flips through it until he reaches _that_ page.

 

It’s a terrible picture, really. He’s never been particularly photogenic, but his smile is somehow even more awkward than usual, his pose stiff and stilted as he holds up last season’s silver trophy. His teammates had ribbed him for it back when the issue first came out.

 

The interview isn’t much better than the picture, but Shirou has apparently been hard at work trying to translate it anyhow. The margins are filled with barely-legible scribbles: “something about number four’s assist at the end of the game? I think??” and “what the hell does this even mean?” Even a rather angry “WHY IS THIS WORD NOT IN MY DICTIONARY” with a frowny face and an arrow pointing to the word in question.

 

“Hey,” Shirou says, emerging from the bathroom. He’s still in the middle of toweling off his hair. “Did you manage to find them…?”

 

He trails off when he sees the magazine in Ryuugo’s hands.

 

“…Oh,” he says, with a strained laugh. “That’s, uh…” He clears his throat, a faint redness high in his cheeks, and Ryuugo can’t help but stare.

 

It’s been ages since he last saw Shirou blush. Not since freshman year, when a very beautiful, very drunk grad student tried to make out with him at a Christmas party. Shirou’s flustered face is not something he could’ve ever forgotten, even if he’d wanted to, and seeing it again (now of all times) causes something inside him to twist. Before his common sense can catch up with the anxious pace of his thoughts, the words are already slipping out.

 

“I’m in love with you,” he says.

 

A prolonged silence stretches between them.

 

Shirou’s eyes widen. The towel falls from his hand, landing in a crumpled heap on the floor.

 

“Oh,” he says once more. He sounds a bit breathless. “I, uh… really?”

 

Ryuugo nods and oh god what the hell is he doing, why did he say it, he’s been trying _not_ to say for so goddamn long and now he’s gone and ruined everything on a stupid, stupid whim –

 

“Well that’s a relief,” Shirou says. He gives a faint, sheepish smile. “That it’s mutual, I mean.”

 

Ryuugo blinks.

 

“…What?”

 

“I feel the same,” Shirou says. “I realized it a while back, actually. I thought I’d been dropping some pretty obvious hints, but…” He frowns contemplatively. “Maybe I should’ve gone with the more direct approach? You always have been pretty slow at picking up on flirting… Remember when we went out drinking with Fudou for your twentieth? And that girl with the lip ring was – ”

 

He’s cut off as Ryuugo reaches out and pulls him into a hug.

 

“Shirou,” he breathes. “Shirou.” He’s holding on too tightly, he knows, crushing him against his chest in a way that’s probably painful, but god, he just can’t help it. Shirou’s hair is still wet where it’s pressed against his cheek, but he can’t bring himself to care. He pulls back just a little; lifts a trembling hand to Shirou’s throat and feels his pulse drumming quick beneath his palm. He traces a thumb along Shirou’s jawline, past the curve of his ear, stopping at the nape of his neck to curl his fingers in his hair. Shirou seems startled at the touch, but soon enough he’s relaxing into it, looking at him with a kind of exasperated fondness. Ryuugo lets out a shaky breath that sounds more like a sob as he leans in to press their lips together.

 

It’s chaste and hesitant at first, until Shirou laughs and fists a hand in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him even closer. His mouth is hot and he grazes Ryuugo’s bottom lip with his teeth and Ryuugo’s mind feels like it’s short-circuiting, he can’t think, this is all too –

 

“How long?” he says, breaking away. He’s breathing hard, heartbeat pounding overloud in his ears. “How long have you felt this way?”

 

Shirou’s brow furrows as he ponders this. “Hmm… Two years, I think? Maybe a little longer. I realized it after Arisa dumped me. ‘You always talk about Someoka,’ she said. ‘You should just date him instead.’” He grins. “And I thought hey, she’s a psych major, she might be on to something.”

 

“Oh my god,” Ryuugo mutters. He scrubs a hand across his face, a kind of disbelieving weariness settling heavy on his shoulders. “So for two years now, we could’ve been…”

 

He doesn’t need to finish his thought. Shirou seems to catch his meaning.

 

“Seems that way,” he says. His expression is astonishingly nonchalant. “I didn’t know how you felt, and I was worried about making things weird, so I didn’t say anything, but… Apparently I should have? Such is life, I suppose.” He waggles his eyebrows in a suggestive manner. “How long have you had the hots for me?”

 

“… Eight years.”

 

Shirou’s smile falters, replaced little by little with incredulity.

 

“Eight – _eight years_?” he echoes. “Since _high school_? What… what the hell, Ryuu? Why didn’t you say anything?”

 

“Same reason as you, I suppose. Didn’t want to fuck things up.” He sighs and lowers himself down on to the bed, leaning forward to cradle his head in his hands. “And I always thought… it’d be better, if you settled down with a woman.”

 

“…What? Why?”

 

“Because it’d be easier, then,” he says, and his words are louder than he meant them to be, so sharp and brittle they almost get caught in his throat. “Easier for you to have a family.”

 

Shirou falls silent. When Ryuugo glances up at him, the look on his face is indescribable.

 

“A family?” he repeats. His voice is low and soft and it sends a shiver down Ryuugo’s spine. “When did I ever say that I wanted a family?”

 

“I _know_ you never said it, but still I just… It’s always been on my mind, alright?? Your family’s gone, Shirou. Wouldn’t it be better, if you could make up for it? If you could have another chance at that kind of happiness? I can’t… I can’t give you that. Not the way a woman could. I can’t – ”

 

He’s interrupted by a swift right hook to the face. His head snaps to the side, pain blossoming across his cheek and along his jaw, and he could swear he sees stars for a moment before his vision swims back into focus. He lifts a hand to his face, touching the raw wound in shock.

 

“What the _fuck_ , Ryuu?” Shirou is suddenly flushed with anger, his breath coming quick and ragged. “You think… You think you know what’s _best_ for me? That I should be with a woman because of some made-up bullshit? Some imaginary ‘hole in my heart that needs to be filled’?? You seem to have my whole life planned out for me already, but funny enough I don’t remember being asked about it! You think I want to _replace_ my parents and Atsuya? Fuck you!”

 

“N-no,” Ryuugo says, desperation tingeing his words. He reaches out, curling his fingers around Shirou’s wrist, but he tugs his arm away. “No, god, I didn’t mean… I just want you to be _happy_ , Shirou. I used to… imagine us together, after ten years. Or after twenty, even. And the you in my mind was always so full of regrets. I didn’t want to see the real you looking that way. Looking at _me_ that way. Like I stole all your chances. Like it was all a mistake.” He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, which are beginning to sting. “Shit, I’m just… I’m sorry. I was wrong. I’m so sorry.”

 

Shirou is quiet for a time. More than a minute passes as he stands there, eyes downcast, not speaking a word.

 

And then he merely sighs, shoulders slumping low with tiredness, and runs a hand through his hair.

 

“Man. You’re _really_ in love with me, aren’t you?”

 

Startled, Ryuugo laughs – a quiet, weary sound. “God, you have no idea.”

 

Shirou seems to consider this. “You want a drink?” he says.

 

“… If it’s strong enough to get me wasted, then yes. Absolutely.”

 

“Excellent.” He opens up his closet and rummages around, emerging a moment later with a suspicious-looking glass bottle. “Been keeping this stuff in case of emergency. And I think _this_ is about as close to an ‘emergency’ as we’re gonna get, so. Bottoms up?”

 

After their first round of shots (“I think this might actually be paint thinner,” he coughs, and Shirou gives him a thumbs up, too overwhelmed by the burning in his throat to speak), Shirou apologizes for punching him in the face.

 

“It’s fine,” he says. “You had every right.”

 

“Yeah, maybe,” Shirou muses. “But all things considered, I kinda feel like a… domestic abuser or something.”

 

“… Wow,” Ryuugo murmurs, and shakes his head in sheer amazement. “That sentence makes me far happier than it has any right to.”

 

After their second round of shots (“do I even want to know the alcohol content?” he asks, and Shirou’s eyes widen as he checks the label), his mind is beginning to feel rather hazy.

 

“I used to think you had a thing for Gouenji,” Shirou says.

 

Ryuugo stares at him.

 

“… Gouenji.”

 

“Yeah, I mean… You’ve always had a lot of respect for the guy. And you ended up at the same high school, on the same team again, both of you still playing the same position. Forward boyfriends.” Shirou grins broadly. “Seemed like a flawless match to me.”

 

“ _Gouenji_ ,” he says once more, slower this time, as if it might make more sense that way. He tries to imagine dating Gouenji Shuuya but keeps hitting some sort of mental roadblock. Gouenji is a great guy. He’s attractive and talented and intelligent. And yet.

 

“He’s just so _serious_ all the time,” Ryuugo says with a thoughtful frown. “I don’t think I have it in me to deal with that. Pretty sure I’d end up shaking him by the shoulders, begging him to ‘please, for the love of god, tell a joke’ or something.”

 

“Ah, I see,” Shirou laughs. “So it’s my sparkling sense of humor that you find so appealing?”

 

Ryuugo glances at him, then – at his hand resting on the table, pale skin standing out against the dark wood. At the sharp line of his collarbone beneath the cling of his shirt. At the tips of his ears, flushed a faint pink from the alcohol.

 

“… Among other things,” he says softly. He clears his throat and reaches out for the bottle, hastily refilling his glass.

 

After their third round of shots, Shirou is officially down for the count. He’s slumped against the table, eyes fading in and out of focus as he tries desperately to stay awake.

 

“Yeah, I think it might be time to call it quits,” Ryuugo says. He’s more than a little drunk himself, and he stumbles as he gets to his feet, the room tilting around him. He hoists Shirou up and drags him over to the bed, depositing him there in an unceremonious heap. He’s about to go fumbling around for the spare futon when Shirou catches him by the wrist.

 

“You should sleep with me,” he murmurs, patting the empty space next to him, and the implications of that statement are enough to give Ryuugo pause. His mouth is dry as he climbs into bed. He’s no sooner laid down than Shirou is shifting closer, putting his arms around him, resting his head against Ryuugo’s chest, right above his heart.

 

They lie there like this for a time, and then:

 

“You weren’t wrong,” Shirou says, voice soft and muffled. “I think it might be nice, to get married someday. To have kids and in-laws. But… I don’t know what to do, Ryuu. Sometimes, when I go a while without looking at photos of my parents, I start to forget their faces. And I already forgot their voices a long time ago. Even Atsuya’s voice is starting to slip away from me lately. I’m so scared. If I get a new family someday, will my old one disappear entirely? I don’t want to lose them and it’s so fucking stupid because I already have, they’re dead and I know that but still I don’t – ”

 

His words catch in his throat.

 

Ryuugo doesn’t know what to say. Even if he were sober, he thinks, he would still undoubtedly be at a loss. And so he merely wraps his arms around Shirou and presses a kiss to his temple and hopes that it’s enough.

 

(Despite his best efforts, Ryuugo is the one who falls asleep first.)

 

.

 

.

 

They both wear sunglasses to morning practice. Shirou ends up sitting down on the grass as he tells everyone their training schedules for the day, stopping occasionally to groan and press a hand to his mouth.

 

“Rough night?” Shirosaki says, raising an eyebrow.

 

Ryuugo would laugh if his head wasn’t throbbing mercilessly. “You have no idea.”

 

“What’s with the…?” He gestures towards his cheek.

 

“Yeah,” Yukimura says, materializing seemingly out of thin air. His glower has a dangerous edge to it. “What’s up with that, Someoka-san?”

 

He sighs and rolls his eyes. “Geezus, kid. I didn’t do anything _untoward_ , if that’s what you’re implying. What kind of asshole do you take me for?” A wave of nausea washes over him, and he patiently waits for it to pass. “But let’s just say I definitely deserved it.”

 

Shirosaki and Yukimura exchange a glance.

 

“Ughh, this is the worst,” Shirou moans, dragging himself over to the bench and lowering himself down next to Ryuugo. “If Death came for me now I would not protest.”

 

“Hey, you’re the one who suggested getting drunk. You’ve got no one to blame but yourself.”

 

“Yeah, yeah.” He lowers his shades just enough to give Shirosaki and Yukimura a significant look. There are dark, bruise-like circles beneath his eyes. “Don’t be like me, guys. This is what happens when you drink irresponsibly. You wind up hating yourself in the morning.”

 

He swings his feet up on to the bench and lies down, resting his head on Ryuugo’s thigh.

 

“You’ve got too much muscle, Ryuu,” he mutters. “This isn’t comfy at all. How the hell did I manage to sleep an entire night like this?”

 

Yukimura grimaces. The weary look in his eyes clearly says, ‘did I really have to see this same shit twice?’ He shakes his head and turns away, running out to join his teammates on the field. Shirosaki continues standing there with his aggravating little smile until Ryuugo makes a shooing motion. (And even then he can feel his smug amusement from afar.)

 

“You’ve got some real brats on your team, y’know that?”

 

Shirou laughs. “That’s why I like them, to be honest. They’ve got character.”

 

 _That’s one word for it,_ he thinks, watching with mild interest as number nine sends an arcing pass to number six. For a several minutes the team’s shouts and the hollow sound of the ball are all that can be heard. Until finally Shirou says:

 

“Long distance relationships rarely work out, you know. All the advice columns say so.”

 

Ryuugo nods thoughtfully. “Yeah, that’s true. But after pining like a dumbass for eight fucking years, I think I can probably handle it. You?”

 

“Yeah, probably… I’ve always been pretty patient.” He pauses, then, ‘hmm’ing like he’s deep in thought. “I guess I’ll have to work on my sexting skills.”

 

Ryuugo’s laugh is loud enough to hurt his own ears and turn a few heads on the field.

 

“At least a few of them had better be soccer-related,” he says. “Or I’m breaking up with you.”

 

“Soccer-related sexts. Duly noted. Anything else I can do for you?”

 

“Hmm… Ditch these kids and come live with me?”

 

“Haha, very funny,” Shirou says, baring his teeth in a wry smile. “You aiming to get smacked again?” He lifts a hand to Ryuugo’s chin, turning his head to the side with a gentle touch. He lowers his sunglasses to get a better look and winces. “Damn, that looks awful. I swear I didn’t mean to hit you that hard.”

 

“I told you it’s fine,” Ryuugo says. He touches Shirou’s hand reassuringly, stroking his thumb along the inside of his wrist. “I’ve had way worse. Remember that time Tobitaka kicked me in the face and broke my nose?”

 

“Oh come on, that was an accident,” Shirou laughs. “That’s a totally different matter.” He grimaces at the memory. “… It _was_ pretty bloody though.”

 

They settle into companionable silence until a thought occurs to Ryuugo.

 

“Hey, did you ever finish translating that godawful interview?”

 

Shirou blinks up at him. “Nah… Italian is hard as hell, man. I only got halfway into it before I gave up. Why?”

 

“… No reason,” he says with a shrug. “Just wondering.”

 

.

 

.

 

_“Just one more question if you please, signore,” the interviewer says, fixing him with that sunny smile, and he tries to keep the relief off his face. Thank fuck, whispers a voice in the back of his mind. It’s almost over. Just a little more and he’ll be free._

_“Sure,” he says. His leg is falling asleep, and he fidgets in his seat. “Ask away.”_

_“What is your fondest memory of playing soccer? The moment that really cemented your love for the sport?”_

_“Oh,” he says, taken aback. “That’s, uh… Hmm.” He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “I guess… it must’ve been back when I was a kid? There was this… **guy** on my junior high team, right? And I didn’t like him very much. He was odd in a way I couldn’t really put my finger on, y’know? And he was a replacement for somebody else. Somebody I thought rather highly of. So I was pretty hostile towards this kid at first, until my Captain finally talked some sense into me. ‘Teamwork’ and ‘priorities’ and all that. Me and this kid, we started working on a technique together. And it was like… every time he passed the ball to me, I felt like I understood him a little better. We became friends that way. He became… pretty damn important to me._

_“And sometimes I think: if it wasn’t for soccer, I never would have met him. Or even if I had met him, I never would have given him a chance. And I think that’s what’s truly great about this sport. That you can get to know someone without exchanging any words. That just by looking at someone’s plays you can see who they really are – ”_

_He breaks off, realizing with a jolt how embarrassing he sounds._

_“… Ah geez,” he mutters, a flush creeping up the back of his neck. “That was pretty overwrought. Sorry.”_

_“No, no!” the interviewer says. She’s beaming at him. “That was wonderful! The fans will love it.”_

_Later, she stops him at the door._

_“This is just personal curiosity, not professional,” she says, lowering her voice to a hushed murmur. “That boy you were talking about… You said he became very important to you. Are you by any chance… **together**?”_

_Ryuugo stares at her for a long moment. And then he smiles, in a way that he knows doesn’t quite reach his eyes._

_“Sadly, no,” he says. “I only wish I were that lucky.”_

 

.

 

.

 

He’s just boarded his plane when his phone vibrates. He opens up his messages to find a picture of Shirou, moments away from seductively licking a soccer ball, and has to clap a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter. The elderly woman sitting next to him gives him a disapproving look.

 

 _You know,_ he types, _I appreciate the extent to which you’re playing along with this joke, but I hope you didn’t actually lick that ball. Also I can envision this getting way out of hand in the near future. Can you imagine if you sent something actually lewd to a wrong number?_

 

 _Oh please,_ is Shirou’s response. _Do you have such little faith in me? I swore to adhere to your one and only relationship parameter, and that’s what I’m going to do. Soccer sexts will not be a joke for much longer, my good sir. I shall make them an ART. Few others would be so dedicated, you know. You’re lucky to have me._

 

Ryuugo’s laughter fades away as he stares at those last five words. There’s a tight feeling in his chest – warm and pleasantly aching.

 

 _Well,_ he types, _I certainly can’t argue with that._


End file.
